Wickham had thought Adrianna shy at first, shy and very beautiful, like the proverbial violet blooming unseen. He had thought he would draw her out, but he’d never succeeded. Nothing worked. Not compliments, not tenderness, not patience, certainly not the irritable impatience that had finally grown in him. He often wondered if her parents had pushed the match on her. It couldn’t have been for money. Her father was rich.
Very likely it was the title, so overvalued by those who didn’t have one. If that was the case, it was the father who aspired to a connection with the nobility. Adrianna’s Mr. Gregory had no handle to his name, but she had willingly dashed off, leaving husband, home, and family to live in exile with Mr. Gregory. He hoped she had found happiness in those few years with him.
She had never looked more lovely than the night she told him she was leaving, and till that moment he hadn’t realized she hated him. She had lived three years under his roof, sharing every intimacy, always with a polite facade, and all the time she had hated him. “You may sneer and look down your aristocratic nose all you like, my fine Lord Wickham, but I’d rather live in sin with Mr. Gregory if I damn my soul to eternal hellfire, than to live with you a day longer.”
He couldn’t remember what answer he had made to that. The shock of it had probably rendered him speechless. He had a very vivid memory of her yanking off her wedding ring and hurling it at his feet. “And you can keep your precious family heirlooms, too, and your boring old abbey. I hope I never
see
another abbey.”
She probably had, but she had not seen his again. Aside from the disgrace of it, he had been happy enough to be rid of her. Three years of cool politeness had cured him of any desire for marriage. Toward the end, they lived in London, sometimes not meeting for two or three days at a time. The abbey had been like a prison, with just the two of them rattling around in it, trying to keep out of each other’s way. The company they invited to take the edge off their boredom hadn’t helped much. Adrianna had always been ill at ease with his friends, although she seemed eager to have them come.
No trick to make her feel at home had worked. He had thought if she redecorated the place to her own taste, she might like it better. They never got past the main drawing rooms. She liked blue, had chosen blue window hangings, but there her ideas ran out. How he had come to loathe those blue hangings! Did she prefer French or English furniture? “You choose, Alfred. Your taste will be unexceptionable.” In other matters, too, she was apparently without an opinion of her own. Would she like to go to Brighton for a spell, or to Scotland? “You choose, Alfred. You know those places better than I.” He wondered why she had not asked him to choose her lover. A wry smile settled on his lips.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Peg said, trying to cheer him up.
“That’s about what they’re worth.”
“Ah, you’re thinking of your poor wife. It’s no good coming here nights to drink yourself into forgetting her. You oughta marry some nice girl and have yourself a family.”
“Once was enough.”
“Weren’t you happy then? Didn’t you love her?”
“Of course I did. You don’t marry someone you don’t love.”
“Ha, don’t you believe it! Plenty do. They marry for money. I wouldn’t say no to Jack Ketch himself, if the dibs was in tune. And you a fine lord—any lady would have you.”
Very likely it had been the title. Adrianna’s rare shows of liveliness had centered around his titled friends. “Is he a
real
duke?” she had asked once of Beaufort. “Imagine, we had two barons and a marquis at our table!” she said another time. But the titles had not stood up to Mr. Gregory’s passion in the end. “He has
feelings
and that’s more than you have.” Funny, he had tried to curb his passions around Adrianna. She was so cool, so collected—who would have thought she craved passion?
“Shall we have another bottle of wine?” Peg asked, forcing herself to smile, though it was midnight, and she must be dog tired. She got a commission on each bottle.
“I’m poor company tonight.” He handed her a gold coin. “You have another bottle, Peg.”
“Coo, it don’t cost this much!”
“That’s compensation for my dreary company. I’m running along now. Take care, Peg.”
She slid the golden boy into her pocket and swayed over to another table, with a smile over her shoulder at Wickham.
He felt touched at that wistful smile. What a life, doomed to sit out one’s every evening in this hole. It felt good to get out in the clean, cool air. It chased away the shadows of memory. He wouldn’t come back to this place. It was too depressing. Dallan had introduced him to it, and in a small village there was nothing better to do. At least it provided something more than gambling.
As he rode along, cold stars twinkled overhead in an ink-black sky. Trees loomed like earth-bound clouds in the distance. It was a lonely, eerie ride, with no company to beguile the trip. His mind roved over his past life, then looked into the future. He was well to do, thirty-three years old—not too old to begin again. As Miss Cummings had so slyly pointed out, he wanted a son and heir. A pity a man couldn’t buy one; it would be so much easier than saddling himself with another wife.
Memories of Adrianna always turned him against another marriage. He entered Laycombe, and as he rode past Meachams’, the sound of music came through the windows Cecilia had opened to dilute the fumes of Sally Gardener’s scent. He took one look, then rode on without glancing behind him.
Inside, Mrs. Gardener turned to her daughter and said, “I feel a wretched wind on my back, Sal. I’m sure a window has been left open, for the curtains are blowing. Close it, will you, before I come down with a chill.”
Sally slid behind the golden drapery. As she closed the window, she saw Lord Wickham’s black stallion trotting down the road. She stared to confirm that she was not mistaken. She closed the window and hastened straight to Cecilia’s side.
“If you care to take a look, you’ll see Lord Wickham just jogging down the road—alone. It seems he didn’t have company to take to Jack Duck’s, after all,” she said triumphantly. “I wonder why he told you he had company.”
She put her hand on Cecilia’s elbow to lead her to the window. Cecilia shook it off. “You must ask him, the next time he picks up your parcels, Miss Gardener.”
Cecilia wouldn’t lower herself to dart to the window, but she assumed that if anyone in Laycombe would recognize Wickham and his mount, it must surely be Miss Gardener. Her cheeks were flushed with annoyance, and in her breast she felt a deeper ache that she didn’t care to examine.
Chapter Nine
On Sunday, it was a full week since Cecilia had laid eyes on Wickham. She thought he might be at church, since he had attended the week before. Dallan and Wideman were there, and walked home with the ladies after, but of Wickham there was neither sight nor sound. This, coming on top of the slight of not attending the rout party, began to look like willful planning to avoid her. What could account for it? Curiosity was added to piqued pride. With her mind distracted by Wickham, she had uphill work being satisfied that the matches she had come to arrange were progressing more or less satisfactorily.
Both Dallan and Wideman accepted an invitation to luncheon, and afterwards, George suggested the two couples drive out into the country.
“And of course Cecilia must accompany us,” Dallan said at once. He was always trying to entice her into intimacy.
“Oh no,” Cecilia said at once. “You two couples will not require a chaperon. You may chaperon each other.”
“What will you do?” he persisted.
With an excellent mount awaiting her pleasure, she said that she would be riding.
“With Wickham?” Dallan asked jealously.
She squelched the urge to inform him that it was none of his business and said, “Not today.” She didn’t volunteer that her only companion was the groom.
Dallan left it at this, but curtailed his own outing severely. As soon as he espied Cecilia trotting through the meadow with only a groom for escort, he claimed an errand he must perform for his mother, and the two couples were home within an hour. Wideman agreed to walk over to the vicarage with Alice, but Dallan left. His “business” was to dart home and hop astride his mount, to go chasing after Cecilia. She had ridden away from the abbey that day, west of the village.
Her aim was to calm her nerves and persuade herself she cared nothing that Wickham was proving so elusive. The appearance of Dallan, alone, darting toward her was more than her spirits could stand, and she was abrupt with him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked crossly.
“I have come to keep you company. You should have told me you had no escort,” he smiled.
“I wanted to be alone. I have some thinking to do.”
“Two heads are better than one. Does not this thinking jag involve me?” he asked, with a knowing look.
So, he had tumbled to it that she was here to make matches. She always knew he was the sharper of the two. “Why do you think that?” she parried.
“I keep my eyes open. Shall we dismount and stroll a little?”
“You’re very clever, but I think best alone, and on horseback, Mr. Dallan.”
“I have asked you to call me Henley, Cecilia. You’re right about the stroll. Dull stuff. There is nothing as enjoyable as a ride. Famous good sport,” he smiled, refusing to take the hint.
“Where is Martha?”
“I took her home.”
This being the case, Cecilia immediately claimed fatigue and headed for home to deliver Mr. Dallan into the proper hands.
“I wish you would share with me what is troubling you,” he said.
“It is a personal matter.”
“I am a bit of dab at handling personal problems,” he persisted.
“So am I. I can manage it, thank you.”
She quickly changed the subject to a discussion of the scenery, and got him back to Meachams’ house as fast as she could. Still her vexations were not over. He refused to come in. “For I told Martha I had an errand to perform for Papa. I hope you will not tell her otherwise.”
“You ought not to ask me to lie to my cousin,” she pointed out stiffly, though she was not eager to tell Martha the truth.
“All’s fair in love and war.” At least he spoke of loving Martha. That was something! “Anyway, it’s not exactly a lie. I am going to call on Aunt Percival immediately.” He apparently read agreement to the subterfuge in his companion’s face, for he said no more about it. Before leaving, he asked, “Will you be attending the assembly on Saturday evening, Cecilia?”
“Yes, we plan to attend. Will you and Mr. Wideman be there?”
“If you are to be there, wild horses would not keep me away.” This was accompanied by a soulful look from his black eyes.
She noticed the subtle shift from “You and Mr. Wideman” to “I,” but ignored it. What she would have liked very much to discover was whether Wickham would be with him and sought to find out by indirection. “You won’t let Lord Wickham lure you off to Jack Duck’s?” she said, smiling to remove any idea of her real concern.
“I’m flattered at your eagerness. I will be there, have no fear.” He bowed and got away before she could think of any way to depress his presumption or discover whether Wickham would be at the assembly.
Cecilia wore a scowl when she entered the house. It did not lessen to see Sally Gardener installed with Martha in the window seats, smirking like a pampered cat.
“So this was Mr. Dallan’s errand!” she crowed. “That was a sly trick to serve your cousin, Miss Cummings.” Martha cast a suspicious glance on her cousin, but said nothing.
Cecilia took a deep breath to calm her nerves and replied, “It was no trick, Miss Gardener. I met Mr. Dallan on his way to visit his Uncle Percival. He rode along this far with me.”
“The Percivals live in quite the other direction,” Miss Gardener announced in a voice of triumphant malice. “We have caught you out there, Miss Cummings.”
“Do they, indeed? Then I must conclude Mr. Dallan’s manners are exquisite, if he has gone so far out of his way to accommodate Martha’s cousin.”
This explanation satisfied Martha, and her next business was to ask what Henley had said.
“He made me promise to deliver you to the assembly next Saturday,” Cecilia told her, with a twinge for the lie. Martha’s satisfaction soared to pleasure, and she gave a sniff in Sally Gardener’s direction.
“I don’t suppose Henley happened to say where Lord Wickham is today?” Miss Gardener inquired.
“I didn’t ask,” Cecilia said loftily. She left before any further impertinences could be offered.
“You will have to keep a sharp eye on that one,” Sally said, as soon as she was again alone with Martha. “Having lost out on Lord Wickham, she has set her bonnet at Henley.”
“You are mistaken, Sally. My cousin does not care overly much for Henley. They are always coming to cuffs.”
“What better way to draw his attention, goose?”
“No, truly. She even thinks I might look higher myself. And if she does not think him quite good enough for me, you may be sure she would not want him for herself.”
“What a sly creature she is! First she tries to set your jaw against him, then she wins his attention by these flirtatious little quarrels.”
“You misunderstand the matter entirely. I am quite sure it is Wickham she favors.”
“Is that what she says?” Sally asked eagerly.
“Indeed no! She has not said anything of the sort, but she—she seems to like him. She is a little excited and nervous when he is coming to call, you know. And though she tried to hide it, I think she was disappointed that he didn’t come to the rout last night. You may be sure that if Cousin Cecilia ever accepts an offer, it will be from an older, titled gentleman like Lord Wickham.”
“How old is she?”
“In her early twenties.”
“That old! She’s not finding easy work of nabbing Wickham’s title in any case,” Sally said, and had to be satisfied with that.
Sally Gardener didn’t happen to be on watch at her window when Lord Wickham arrived at Mrs. Meacham’s door the next afternoon. She missed his entrance, but by the time he left, she had been summoned by her mama, who was nearly as interested in the doings of Miss Cummings and Lord Wickham as her daughter.